But what is love? Because there are different kinds. There is the love for things. For ideas. And these loves, they just go on and on. Racing up that asymptote. You can always love philosophy, or baseball, or movies. You can set them aside, and come back to the, one day. And maybe there is new, different content. But that's okay. That's just more to explore.

But there is another kind of love. The love we have for people. And that, my darling dears, is the kind that fails. Because unlike ideas, unlike that signed Babe Ruth card you keep locked in your safe at home, people change. People do things they want to do, not the things we wish they'd do.

People fail us.

And so there's the other side of the graph. Climbing, climbing, climbing, but levelling off to a nearly flat line. Maybe there's no upper limit. But only time will tell.

infinity

is

old

beginning

flowing

to

end

end

end

to

flowing

beginning

old

is

infinity

Love has damaged me, and I don't know if I'll be able to stop the bleeding before she finds me. I knew the Avatars were inhuman, but I couldn't have guessed just how strong and skilled they'd be. 

We had decided the Avatars had to die. Targets had been handed out, and I had drawn Love. And after our brief engagement, I'm glad I hadn't pulled Wrath.

She's coming, toying with me. And even if I manage to bind my cuts, our initial encounter hasn't left me hopeful. I'll fight; I have no real choice. But Love always leaves wounds....

The hard flash of light cast stark shadows through the bunker. Even here, miles from the test site, the ground shook as if a giant had slammed its fist into the ground. And in a way, it had.

We were all still breathing. That was good. The atmosphere hadn't burst into flames. Not that I had expected it to. The math was certain, inexorable. The air wouldn't fuel a global conflagration. But anything near the detonation... well.

Ground zero - total destruction. A wash of heat, kinetic energy, and hard radiation would pulverize anything at the site of the explosion. Within a kilometer, the thermal pulse would turn everything into carbonized statues that would be blown to clouds of ash once the shockwave hit. Farther out, people and buildings would be brutally scarred by the thermal pulse, and radiation would poison the very earth.

I could feel myself begin to shake. What had I done? This thing, it had ruled me for so long, consumed my thoughts day and night. We had to build it, before one of our enemies did. This weapon would end the war, would dictate the victor. But even so....

Numb lips parted and I drew in a breath. I could almost taste the ash. I could almost see, on the horizon, what was to come.

"I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."

No.

See, here's the thing. I agree with you. In fact, I think we both know that I'm gonna end up punching my own ticket before it's all said and done. I just want you to be sure. So give it a day. That's all I'm asking, is for you to give it one day.

Sleep on it. Sober up, or get drunk. Watch a movie. Take a walk. But most importantly, take a big step back and look at the world. This is what you're going to be leaving. You really wanna miss out on The Last Jedi?

I'm not joking. One time I was about to kill myself and I saw the first trailer for Fury Road. I was so fucking furious with George Miller for forcing me to stick around until I saw it. At the time, anyway.

It came out a couple of years ago. I'm still here. Had a few more close calls. And like I said, we both know how my story ends. Just not when. And I don't think you know when yours ends. Not yet. So give it a day. And tomorrow, if you wake up and the sun is shining and the birds are chirping and you have the most wonderful day that you've had in months or years, and you take a deep breath at the end of the day and smile sadly and pull the knife out... well, hell. That's your decision. But go out on top.

It's the only way to know that you're making the right decision.

Fire.

Fire, and blood.

The coppery stench flooded nostrils, a hard reminder of the last hour laid over by a smoky pall. Burnt flesh smelled all too similar to pig, and he retched into the mud.

He'd killed them all.

It hadn't been his fault, not really. The Excoriators would cast no blame at him; they wouldn't dare touch one of the chosen. One of what he'd become the moment his anger had bubbled into hot rage and that rage had kindled into magefire.

No, the Excoriators wouldn't dream of persecuting a Wildblood. If only he could be so forgiving.

Child slaves on Mars;

that is a horrific idea

that there are people 

that believe

that there are

Child slaves on Mars.

It would be hard, moving on. While the rain slaked the thirsty ground, there was something broken, jagged and dirty inside him that water couldn't wash away. The fistful of cold mud dribbled through his clenched fingers, but even the drab tailings were quickly washed away.

"Ashes to ashes; dust to dust," the priest intoned, and he cast the glob he'd been clutching into the grave that gaped before him. People were lined up behind him, waiting their turn to help bury her.

Everyone would move on. Everyone except him, because he knew that she was still out there somewhere.